Riser sat alone in the dim chamber, the only light coming from a single soulflame hovering above his desk.
His thoughts were not idle.
They were of power.
Not for vanity, not for prestige, though those were inevitable, but because he had to. Because in this world, power was the only absolute. And without it, he would always be just a pawn in someone else's story.
That was the tragedy of the old Riser Phenex.
But not him.
It had been just over a month since he had awoken in this body, reborn under gilded feathers and ancient Castles. Since then, he had been relentless, an obsessive student of the devil arts.
The pure-blood devils of the Underworld believed demonic power came naturally. That with lineage and waiting, one could bloom like fire.
But they lacked ambition. They relied on talent, on privilege.
Riser had no such illusions. And so, he turned to something else, to the power system in a show he watched back in his first life—Nen.
He thought of it as he closed his eyes, letting his demonic power still, his breath shallow. Zetsu: the shutting of his aura nodes, the absolute nullification of presence.
Devils never used this. They despised the very concept of vulnerability. But that was why they lacked true control.
Riser could now do it in his sleep.
He trained daily, following the concepts of Ten to reinforce his form, Ren to increase output, In to conceal. He practiced Gyo to hyper-focus his senses on a single point. And En, a personal favorite—his domain of perception, reaching meters out like a spider's web. He layered all these over the devil system's inherent malleability and imagination-fueled application.
That wasn't all.
He had gone further.
Through ritual and experimentation, Riser had created potions—blends of infernal chemistry, law-bound contracts, and the structured logic of the spiritual. The original Riser was decently talented, and he inherited all of his knowledge and took it further.
Which culminated in his first inventions: potions of power. Each potion, once ingested, rewrote a part of his very essence. His soul adapted, contorted, evolved.
The first was Hunter.
The moment I drank the Hunter potion, it was like someone cracked open a vault in my head. Suddenly, I just knew how to survive, how to move, how to hunt, how to live in the wild like I'd been doing it since birth.
Plants I'd never seen before, I could name them. I knew which ones would stop bleeding, which ones would kill, and which ones would keep me standing when my body wanted to drop. Animal organs? I knew what to keep, what to burn, and what to eat raw if it came to it.
Traps? Oh, that came too. I could walk through a forest and my eyes would just highlight the best spots. Slopes, branches, pressure points, like the terrain itself whispered to me where the trap should go.
I could rig a tripwire that would take out a demonic boar or blow a path to pieces if I needed. Yeah, explosives. Don't ask me how, but I suddenly knew the blast radius of a homemade grenade, the delay of a fuse, the best way to turn a pile of rocks into a minefield. It didn't stop there. I could feel danger spots, unstable cliffs, hidden sinkholes, quicksand. Nature's own traps, just waiting to be used. And I remembered places, like my mind took snapshots of every tree, every bend, every hiding spot. I didn't have to think, I just knew where to lead someone to make sure they wouldn't come out again.
Then my body changed. My strength surged, solid, feral. Like a bear's raw power mixed with a cat's precision. I could punch hard enough to crack the air and leap like I had springs for bones. My body just obeyed, tight control, fast reactions, quick healing. A cut closed faster. Pain dulled. I didn't feel stronger. I was stronger.
And the senses? That's the freakiest part. I don't even need to try most of the time. But when I focus, I can smell the difference between two people by the sweat on their shirts. I can see the faintest scuff on the ground and know who passed by and how long ago. I can hear a whisper across a field and tell if the speaker is limping, tired, or lying. Even footsteps tell me weight, stride, confidence.
But unless I want it, it stays quiet. Background hum. No overload. Just waiting.
The second was Provoker—a social weapon.
After I awakened the power of Provocation, something in me changed. I could read people better, spot the little cracks in their pride or patience. Just by watching and listening, I knew what to say or do to get under their skin. When I activate it, it's not just words. It's calculated humiliation, sharpened like a blade. My insults don't just sting, they dig deep and make people reckless. Even beasts and mindless monsters feel it. I don't even have to speak—sometimes just being near me is enough to make them charge.
It's not always fancy. Even a word like "ugly" can hit the right nerve if I say it right. And once they're mad, they're easy to bait, easy to lead—straight into a trap.
The third was Conspirer.
This one had nearly broken him.
After taking the Conspirer potion, my mind just... sharpened. Thoughts came faster, clearer. I could see connections, spot flaws in logic, and spin convincing lies on the fly.
With a few words, I can stir desire or doubt in someone's heart—make them chase an idea that wasn't theirs to begin with. That's Incitement.
But the real weapon? Misdirection. Confusion. Deception. I lead people to their own downfall without ever touching them. That's the art of conspiracy.
And last… Reaper.
As a Reaper, I see weaknesses—no matter where they hide. Flesh, stone, storms, even supernatural barriers. If it has a flaw, I can find it. And when I strike, I don't just hit hard. I hit where it hurts most.
That's Cull. Every blow is aimed at a vital point, and if I land enough, even an opponent mightier than I will fall.
He was not yet at his peak.
But the foundation had been laid.
When others see me, they see a young lord playing at war, he thought.
Let them.
He smirked to himself, eyes glowing faintly with internal power. The Hunter senses told him someone was coming.
Three... two...
A knock.
He didn't need to check. He already knew.
"Enter," he called lazily.
The door opened to reveal Seorin, blonde, composed, clad now in a knight's formal gown of the Phenex house crest. She looked regal. Yet the slight hesitation in her step betrayed something softer beneath.
"I came to thank you," she said. "And… say goodbye."
"Already trying to get rid of me?" Riser asked with a raised brow. "And here I was, preparing an emotional farewell with a sonnet and tragic violin."
She laughed softly, stepping closer.
"You saved me. I haven't forgotten."
"I told you. You handled yourself well. I merely stepped in before your charming head rolled off."
She rolled her eyes, but there was color in her cheeks.
"I still owe you."
"You could name your firstborn after me," Riser offered. "Or build a statue."
"Tempting," she murmured. Then, her tone changed, quieter. "But I think I'll thank you properly… now."
She stepped closer.
The mood shifted.
Riser tilted his head slightly as she reached for his jacket, eyes glinting with something between flirtation and promise. He caught her hand gently but firmly, just before things could go further.
For a moment, they stood in silence, heat in the air.
But Riser, ever the conspirer, simply smiled.
"You're beautiful when you blush," he said, brushing his thumb across her knuckles.
"Shut up," she whispered, redder than before.
But she didn't pull away.
Not yet.
-----------------------------------------------
Thirty devils stood at the forest's edge. The expedition had begun.
Leading them were the high-class devils:
• Zarkaura Saeros, Rank 6 and the overall commander, stoic and composed, with a stare like sharpened obsidian. And what his intuition told him to be wary of.
• Abygral of House Mengis, Rank 5, known for his battlefield valor.
• Tenebrael Silase, Rank 5, a silent strategist with unsettling calm.
• Mizraketh of House Hizbi, Rank 5, the strongest in raw strength among them.
Riser Phenex was the outlier, young, only still middle-class in power, yet unshakably present among the seasoned warriors. His face betrayed no fear.
A Week Later
They had gone deep into the Leyen Mountains, following no maps. There were none accurate for this region. At first, they found nothing. Then the signs began.
A rotting elk, skin pale and translucent, as if the color had been drained like juice from a fruit. Corpses of devils, some crucified upside down, others bent into grotesque sculptures that defied biology. An entire platoon's gear scattered as if torn from their wearers mid-scream, but no bodies.
Riser said little. He merely walked beside Zarkaura, watching, listening, calculating.
They followed the trail of horror for nearly half a day when the first attack came.
A pack of demonic wolves—over a hundred strong. They descended from the cliffs and treetops like a storm of teeth and muscle.
The devils reacted immediately, decades of training snapping into place. Formations were called. Magic was cast. Blood painted the forest floor.
But the wolves didn't stop. Another wave came the next night. Then another.
A grim pattern emerged: they were being herded, guided. Every time they made camp, even with careful precautions and magical concealment, the wolves found them.
By the fifth night, they were exhausted. At their latest makeshift camp, the captains met in hushed tones around the flickering campfire.
"Something's wrong," said Abygral, his armor streaked with dried blood.
"They're coordinating. They don't behave like wild beasts."
"we are being guided," said Zarkaura. "Or worse, led."
They formed a rotation. Zarkaura would take the first watch. Riser noticed how his eyes never left the dark horizon.
Riser's Thoughts
He remained quiet, but his mind churned.
This isn't a hunt.
It's a culling.
We are the prey.
The signs were too perfect. Tracks covered. Magical cloaking. Stealth practiced down to the breath, and still, the wolves came.
Someone is feeding them our locations.
But he kept his suspicions to himself.
If there's a traitor, the wolves are the least of our problems.
The Final Ambush
On the tenth day, Zarkaura's shout shattered the morning air.
"Form up! We are surrounded!"
They had been boxed in. A valley of dead trees. Jagged cliffs on three sides. Too late to reposition.
Hundreds of wolves emerged from the shadows. Their eyes glowed red with unnatural intelligence. Riser counted five alpha wolves, huge, pitch-black beasts wreathed in shadowflame. High-class in power.
Zarkaura barked orders. "Form the pentacle! Don't break the line!"
The devils obeyed.
The battle was hell itself.
Wolves attacked with maddening speed. Devils countered with flame, blade, and family magic. The formation held for a time.
Abygral Mengis roared, unleashing a burst of lightning that incinerated a dozen wolves.
They rallied.
Until Tenebrael Silase broke rank.
"It's hopeless! We're dead if we stay!" he shouted, eyes wild with fear. He vanished into the forest, unlikely to survive.
That was the crack the wolves needed.
One of the alphas leapt through the gap, straight for Abygral. The noble devil screamed once before the beast's jaws closed over his chest, crushing him like glass.
Then the panic began.
The formation broke. Screams. Blood. Chaos.
Idiots, thought Riser coldly. They've turned this into a massacre.
He dashed north, trailing Mizraketh. If anyone could survive, it was a Rank 5 captain. He suppressed his demonic energy to nothing, completely hidden.
After what felt like hours, he found Mizraketh—but he was not alone.
The Real Enemy
Six tall figures emerged from the trees.
They were shadows made flesh, burning with internal fire. Humanoid only in outline. Gaunt and shifting. Their forms bent reality around them.
Shadow Warlocks.
Demonic entities of fire and shadow. Normally solitary. But in rare cases, they formed groups, hive minds, amplifying their power.
Six of them meant near-invincibility.
Mizraketh flared his aura in defiance. "Come, then!"
The Shadow Warlocks didn't answer. They moved as one.
Whips of shadowfire lashed from their arms. Mizraketh screamed. His armor melted. His limbs turned black with rot.
It was not a battle. It was an execution.
Riser crouched, unmoving, suppressing his every breath. For the first time since his reincarnation, he felt true fear.
Then pain. Something slammed into his neck.
His vision went dark.